In My Flying Machine Going Up She Goes
by darthsydious
Summary: Edwardian aeronautics!Lock Sherlolly, Warstan, and good old dependable Lestrade. Sherlock has heard of Pegould looping the loop, it's only fair the most brilliant mind in England do it too! Inspired by a scene from BBC series Flambards, and you all should watch that series if you have any sense. Sherlolly, mention of Warstan.


"Holmes, Holmes come and look at this!" Gregory Lestrade, probably the best engineer at Baker Flying School, waved Sherlock Holmes over to the first hanger. In his hands, he held a newspaper, the first lines caught Sherlock's attention and he hurried over.

"What is it?"

"Look, Pégoud, that daredevil, he's looped the loop!"

"What? Let me see that!" Holmes grabbed the paper, scanning the columns. "Well this is rotten," he groused. "It doesn't say anything about how he did it! Just the crowds gasping and a lot of rubbish."

John Watson came and stood by them, reading over his shoulder. "Oh yeah, I read about that. Surprised you haven't put it together yet."

"What?"

"To loop the loop," Watson replied. "You've thought of it, don't' say you haven't!"

"Of course I have," Sherlock replied hotly. He glared at the newspaper, then turned around to face the plane that sat in the hanger. There was a way to do it…

Suddenly, his face alighted, clearly, he had a corker. "John…"

"Don't you even start-" Watson put up his hands as if to absolve himself from whatever plan Sherlock had. He, Greg Lestrade and Sherlock Holmes were all like brothers, and it meant some kind of mischief when they used each other's first names, and they all had done it. It meant the owner of the name would not be given a chance to back out of the plan, no matter how foolhardy. They were brothers, after all.

"What if we set the Blériot's warp wires at a wider angle…"

"What?"

Greg stepped forward, already catching on to Sherlock's thinking. "Put's the stress at the bottom of the loop…"

"Well…well we haven't an eighty-horsepower engine! The Blériot Pégoud flew had one," John put in.

"Hmm, but it isn't about power, is it, Greg?"

"Nope," Greg shook his head. "More power you have, the more weight you carry, more stress on the plane."

"Hence the need to set the warp wires at a wider angle, takes out the stress, evenly distributes weight."

"How will you stay in during the loop?" John wanted to know.

"I'm glad you asked," Sherlock replied cheerfully, heading into the hanger. "I'm going to write an article one day, 'The History of Aeronautics and Its Dependency on Bits of Old Rope'."

The others laughed, but followed, happy to give a hand. If anybody could complete this fantastical trick, it would be Sherlock.

"What'll you tell Molly?" Greg wanted to know as they set to work.

"The girls won't be to the airfield for ages, today the hotel was hosting a wedding," John answered, getting down the tools needed.

 **Hours Later…**

"Hello! Finished yet?" Molly called, ringing the bell on her bicycle. She rode up to where the boys had all gathered. Sherlock sat in the Blériot, John was testing the knots on the rope.

"Here now, mind the handles, you'll rip the sides," Greg protested noticing Molly's bicycle handle leaned against the fabric of the plane.

"I'm careful, I'm careful," Molly answered back, shifting. "What are you doing?" she wanted to know.

"Testing this bit of rope," Sherlock replied cheerfully. He poked his head out, as far down as the rope would allowed. "A kiss for luck if you please." Molly obliged.

"Why for luck?"

"You'll see," he said. John checked the ropes once more, satisfied that Sherlock was securely in his seat.

"Come along Molly," John hopped down and, arm around her waist so she wouldn't lose her balance sitting on the bicycle, pushed her along the grass until they were well out of the way.

"Switch on," Greg called, and cranked the propeller. He ducked, running around and well out of the way, hurrying to stand beside Molly and John as Sherlock directed the little plane toward the grassy runway.

"Who's mad, him for doing it or us for letting him?" John wondered aloud with a chuckle.

"Us, definitely," Greg laughed.

"John, Greg, what's going on?" Molly asked. "What's he doing?"

John glanced at her, then back at the Blériot taking off. "He's going to loop the loop."

"No he's not!" Molly laughed.

"All right," John conceded. "He's going to try,"

"He's what?!" Molly turned back, watching as the little plane went up and up, circling higher and higher, her tail swinging wider as the winds caught up with them. Molly made no bones about her dislike of flying. It wasn't that she hated aeroplanes exactly, it was just that she'd read such awful things about crashes. She didn't like how some planes had to fly fast to land. There was a little plane that Sherlock built, it bounced along the ground like a tennis-ball when he landed it. It had to go that fast or else the wind would upend her. Sherlock breathed aeroplanes, he'd rather fly than do anything else, and he was a brilliant pilot. Molly loved that he adored something as much as he loved her. She'd run away from home to be with him. Neither of them were quite twenty-one, so until then, she worked at a private hotel with her best friend Mary Morstan, who was going steady with a pilot on the Baker Airfield, John Watson. Sherlock had left his home as well, finding a good job as a mechanic and engineer at Baker Field. It was a marvelous flight school, and Molly had gotten used to the idea of aeroplanes. She didn't mind the grease or the noise, and there were some parts of flying that were exhilarating, even. It was just the matter of landing that frightened the bloomers off of her.

Watching Sherlock circle higher and higher, she felt her knees knocking, the frame of the bicycle trembling. John gave her waist a comforting squeeze.

"You watch, he'll manage it," he murmured. "He's done the math."

Absentmindedly, she nodded.

They held their breath, not noticing the crowd that had gathered around them. Up and up Sherlock went until he'd felt he was at a sufficient height, then he tipped her nose up and up, up, up, and sun caught the shine of the glossy wings. Like a dragon-fly she went up and over, and somehow Sherlock remained in his seat.

"Well the rope held," Greg said, low, as the crowd behind them erupted in cheers. Molly couldn't say as she was truly astonished, but then, it wasn't every day you saw the man you love performing acrobatics in an aeroplane. It was marvelous, and she _was_ proud of him too, knowing he'd be just tickled that he got to accomplish this feat first in England.

They watched as he circled again, and did another loop, and another and another until he'd had enough. As soon as he touched down they all went running, Molly still on her bicycle, sandwiched between Greg and John.

"That was brilliant!" John laughed, reaching up to be the first to shake his friend's hand.

"How'd the motor handle it?" Greg wanted to know.

"Very well, you were right, we could do with setting the wires shorter if we had to."

"Best safe than sorry," Greg shrugged and began checking the wires for stresses.

Sherlock clambered out, pausing only when he saw Molly standing there. For a moment, he looked sheepish.

"You daft-" Molly threw her arms around his neck and kissed him, oil stains and all. "Just tell me next time you're going to do something mad like that!"

"Very well," he agreed, grinning rather naughtily at her. "Molly, John and I are going to loop the loop."

"What?" John was surprised.

"We can rig up the Dyott the same way-"

"-And loop them in doubles!" John finished, he ran off, whooping all the way to the hanger, just as eager for his turn.

"Who's going to tie him down?" Molly asked, cycling alongside Sherlock and Greg.

"Mary will," Greg answered. "Soon as he touches down again!"

"You're mad, the lot of you!" Molly shook her head. She parked her bicycle beside the hanger, yanking off her gloves and hat. "Well if I'm to be a part of this insanity, I might as well make tea,"

"And hand me my spanner will you, the five-eight?" Sherlock called over his shoulder.

"I will for a kiss," she answered, to which Sherlock happily gave. He knew very well Molly was afraid every time he went up in an aeroplane, he loved her all the more for her putting up with it, and trying to be as much a part of his life at the airfield as she could.

The world was full of adventure and promise, and for the moment, they were all young and relatively carefree. Sherlock could not have been happier, not for a thousand pounds.


End file.
